


an indentation in the shape of you

by cicak



Series: sugar daddy jaskier [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Porn, I don’t tag sex acts but you better believe I followed through on this one, I just live in it, M/M, Sugar Daddy Jaskier | Dandelion, delayed gratification, nice, not apologising to taylor swift this time, riding that dick into the sunset, this is a bottom geralt life, this is my 69th fic on the ao3 therefore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:59:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: In a normal world, Geralt thought, he would have been dragged back to their room at the inn by the fine silk cord laces of his breeches and fucked into the next week by now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: sugar daddy jaskier [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921252
Comments: 37
Kudos: 283





	an indentation in the shape of you

In a normal world, Geralt thought, he would have been dragged back to their room at the inn by the fine silk cord laces of his breeches and fucked into the next week by now, his life forever changed through discovering the joys of having a rich and attentively attired lover. There would be no waiting expected. He imagined pushing people out of the way, slamming a door, barely able to get out of their clothes and just fucking half-dressed against the door. Maybe they wouldn’t even get that far, and he’d be taken in the dark corner of the inn’s stairs, hoping dearly that no opportunistic alcoholic would come in for a swift half on the way to work.

Geralt, for all his reputation, likes fine things well enough. He likes wine, and food, and baths, and beautiful women, and these are vices enough to keep life sweet and coin levels low. He’d never really considered what else one could spend money on, but now, clad in silk and with memories of that sleep shirt and most of the last 12 hours of fine food and bedding not made of straw, perhaps he had been wrong. He’d been too out of it to really enjoy the potential eroticism of the whole experience of last night, and vaguely embarrassed at being dressed to another man’s tastes with another man’s coin, however life-changing the experience turned out to be, but really, he's a man pushing three figures, surely he deserves to be pampered by someone who it turns out earns significantly more than that?

Here, in the bright morning sun, Jaskier just stands there in his ridiculous hat and new suit, smeared with Geralt’s twin scents and the undertone of green earth and waxed thread, hurdy gurdy rosin, the thousand finger grime stink of money; a beacon of impropriety if one has the enhanced senses of a Witcher. In reality, only his brothers would raise an eyebrow at either of them. Only scholars of foreign tongues would read the meaning into embroidery of Geralt’s suit, the way Jaskier has embossed his claim onto Geralt’s skin. Everyone else passing them would just see two well dressed men, one glowering as the other chattered on and patted his pockets, letting every pickpocket in the area know that he is well endowed in a way other than what Geralt is fairly confident about.

Geralt knows in his bones, in his core, that he will be taken by Jaskier as soon as this whole seduction comes to its natural end. He doesn't want to imagine it any other way; he wants it, wants to know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of that devotion, of all the abstractions of Jaskiers love but also the feeling of a cock against his arse, up his guts, a childish taunt made rude and real, piercing flesh right up into him. He won't be some simpering stereotype of the type of man who gets fucked by travelling troubadours, he's already more than proven it against the dressing room door.

He rocks on his heels, and clears his throat pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Jaskier when he turns to face him.

“I just need…” Jaskier says, not looking nearly as apologetic as Geralt would like for further delaying whatever this is, instead smiling tight lipped and with a knowing nod, turns on his heels and heads off down the clean cobblestone street into the heart of the merchant quarter.

This town obviously caters to a finer calibre of person than the towns Geralt usually visits, because besides the gentleman’s outfitters, there is a bespoke saddlery, a book shop that boasts that it presses its own manuscripts, and a vinter that Geralt has heard whisper of by other wine enthusiasts over the years. They’re all places Geralt feels drawn to, and any other day he would have just done it, but Jaskier gave them no quarter, and instead stepped into an apothecary, small and dark and herbaceous, where he greeted the apothecary with familiarity, but not the playful, boyish way he and the tailor had chatted. His demeanor was serious and studious, and he and the apothecary immediately began to discuss formulations and options as if picking up a previous conversation.

Geralt loses the thread of their conversation almost immediately, not because it is particularly esoteric, but because the apothecary’s stock in itself was proving intently distracting. He brews his own tinctures and mixtures for personal use, long practiced and refined over the decades on the path, and so while it would be unlikely that the bottles on the wall would be of personal use, the apothecary is an obvious master of the art. There are bottles here he’s only ever read about. He pulls open a tiny drawer at random and takes in the sight of more sparkling bitterness than he’s seen in a hundred years, just casually sitting in a drawer.

“Geralt” Jaskier calls, and Geralt goes over to the counter, nodding at the proprietor.

Jaskier takes his hand, and rubs an unguent into the meat of his thumb. The preparation is slick and thick, and Jaskier’s thumb glides easily down to rub against his pulse point. The light in the shop is dark, but it glistens, and underneath the slickness his skin feels warm and like an evening’s drinking has been applied directly to that specific spot. It is unlike any medicinal ointment Geralt has felt before, and then it dawns on him that it’s not supposed to be curative at all. It smells like a harem, like languid, humid nights, like night jasmine and musk.

“Do you like it?” Jaskier says, eyes huge and questioning and all Geralt can do is nod, mouth suddenly dry when it hits him what he is doing, what Jaskier is asking.

The apothecary looks studiously neutral, because he knows exactly what this ointment is for, he formulated it after all, he’s probably the man certain types of men always go to, and he knows the value of good customer service when there’s extended seduction going on, and he wraps the dark brown jar in brown paper and dark green ribbon, and takes Jaskier’s money, and busies himself until they leave.

“One more stop, I think”, Jaskier says, and Geralt just nods, and is led back up the road into the vintners. Jaskier hands Geralt his coin purse and then talks to the vinter directly, “Please consult with my companion, I’ll just be next door”.

The vinter happily shows Geralt his best vintages, and when Geralt has narrowed down his choices to certain grapes and regions, opens a few bottles and pours him a generous measure to taste of each one, as if these aren’t each worth a good day’s earnings.

He takes his time, talks notes and aromatics and feels the wine warm in his belly and spread to his blood, so by the time Jaskier comes back in and takes the glass from his hands and sips it delicately, Geralt is feeling even more ready for this than he was an hour earlier, when he was growling promises into Jaskier’s mouth in the outfitters’ changing room.

The wine is beautiful, soft and velvety and acrid enough to create a pleasurable feedback loop of continuous thirst, and they get three bottles. “Just enough for now”, Jaskier says, and hands over the money.

Back out in the street, Jaskier fiddles with the shopping bags. “Perhaps we should get something to eat?” he says.

Geralt’s done a lot of bad things in far fancier streets than this one, but he really doesn’t want to have to ruin what is promising to be a nice day by getting locked up for public indecency.

“There’s a place that does excellent roast partridge”, Jaskier hesitates, eyebrows raised.

“Gods help you, If you dont fuck me now I will find someone else to do it” Geralt growls through gritted teeth.

Jaskier just laughs, but he finally turns back towards the inn. Geralt stands in the street a moment, watching him go, until Jaskier casts an amused look over his shoulder, and Geralt follows like a dog, hot on his heels.

* * *

Jaskier’s tour de chivalrous force continues up the stairs into their room, where the door opens to show a suite that Geralt hadn’t been properly able to appreciate in his poisoned state the night before. He gets a moment to take in the little touches from an innkeeper who wants to keep a client happy; the basket of fruit, the pleasant smell of caraway and amber in the air coming from a chunk of incense on the sideboard, the way the room has been well aired and the bedding changed for new before the door clicks behind him and he remembers all of a sudden the desperation thrumming in his veins and pulls Jaskier to him, finesse lost, the kiss a gallop in the dark, a mess of spit and desperation.

Jaskier puts a hand to Geralt's face and takes control, softens and gentles him, as his other hand undoes each of the knots of the doublet, the ones that Geralt knew were suggestive from the moment he saw them. The feeling of each one popping out of its loop; the pressure of Jaskier’s fingertips doing something to the silk undershirt and his raw, panting body beneath it, the intensity of his gaze, the way the tightness of the doublet releases inch by inch as its undone, releasing his breath along with it.

“Gonna treat you right” Jaskier murmurs, “God Geralt, look at you, you were built for it, nothing better to spend my money on than things to drag off your body, to put in you, to fuck you with, to paint you with, paint your mouth with.”

“Stop talking about your dick and do something with it” Geralt kvetches, and pulls the ridiculous hat off Jaskier’s head, and throws it on a chair, grips him by his hair and kisses him as he walks him backwards towards the bed, freshly remade and ready to be berumpled.

Below him, Jaskier sprawls, chest red and heaving and prick pleasingly thick where it strains against the laces of his trousers, and he looks a bit more like his normal self than the gentleman patron of the last day. Jaskier is a traveller and a scoundrel and the scourge of virgin daughters across the continent; he’s good at acting, at playing a role, the villages that curse his name for the plague of his tow-headed bastards can’t help but know its because he’s good at what he does.

Now, with the stupid hat on the floor and Jaskier’s eyes bright with lascivious, covetous, gluttonous energy, Geralt feels on a more secure footing.

He gets out of his new doublet, lets it slide off his shoulders onto the floor in a dramatic thump of high quality fabric.

The silk cord in the shirt slithers out like a long black snake as sensuously as it had been threaded, and the matching cord in the trousers comes undone with a bare whisper, and Geralt sighs with the release of the pressure.

The pants underneath are disgusting, however beautiful they are, and getting them off causes him to huff in relief, and then he’s naked, _finally_ , but then he pauses, and puts the doublet back on.

“What are you doing”, Jaskier says, watching with interest.

“These are riding leathers”, Geralt says, unable to help himself, despite the fact that the fine silk suit is as far away from a riding set as you can get. “I figured I’d need them for what comes next.”

“Hmm” Jaskier shivers with the mental image as Geralt settles over his thighs, his lovely long musicians fingers touching his namesake embroidered into the thick silk, “that definitely must be pursued, but I promised you a good time, and I really wanted something a little more...specific. I’m a man who likes to keep his promises.”

“No you’re not” Geralt snorts, but shucks the jacket again, and lies down next to him anyway.

Jaskier takes his time, but doesn’t waste any of it. He’s not teasing, exactly, but his way of fucking takes forever, more a ritual than your common or garden sex act (and Geralt’s had ritual sex, so he should know that its worth it despite the trouble in getting the combination of holy oil and bird entrails out of your hair).

Every man knows the theory, but the practice, well, there’s been some questing fingers there in the past, but a posh wank or ordering off the bottom of the menu at a brothel for variety is different from being prepared by someone who really knows what they’re doing.

Jaskier insists on kissing through it, his lips thick and swollen now, lying half-on him with Geralt’s legs arranged just-so so he can reach carefully behind Geralt and make all this build up spill into something real.

Jaskier’s finger feels huge and even through the thick unguent, warming and herbaceous and designed exactly for this use Geralt swears he can feel every ridge and whorl on his finger, the gnawed edges of his cuticles, the smooth edges of his nails on hyper-sensitive skin, and it's not good, exactly, but its not bad either. He is in danger of losing his nerve, of deciding its not for him, of giving into the nonspecific knot in his chest that is like a stuck hiccup he think might be fear, if not for the litany of loving filth that Jaskier is spilling into his ear: “ _you’re so hot, I can’t wait to see your face when I slide right into you, I’m going to barely last, I can already feel how you’re vibrating with it, with me just a couple of knuckles in, but don’t worry, I know what I’m doing, I promised you nothing but good things, my love, and I will deliver you the best fuck of your life or die trying_ ” as he slicked him up, rubbed his thighs with it, getting him slick and open and ready until Geralt catches himself riding back against the fingers, chasing a new hunger, a feeling that isn’t quite pleasure but also definitely isn’t pain, just sensation, until he’s growling back, shifting back to rub Jaskier’s cock against his arse, demanding in simple, small words to be fucked, to be taken, “ _please, please, please_ ”.

That first slide of a hard, long, thick cock up inside his arse, slicked with the best slick money could buy and with a real expert at the reins, was exactly as good as Jaskier had promised, and Geralt felt something honest-to-all-gods unravel in his chest, this bit of anxious duality within him that judged him for doing this, for grunting and keening and swearing and fucking back against it, half on his knees with his dick defying gravity and weeping in gratitude, the part of him that had views on this kind of thing, felt it dislodge and float away.

The angle really is perfect, the way that Jaskier doesn’t ease him into it and instead fucks him like he has nothing to worry about, that perfect slide repeated again and again and again until Geralt loses count and thought and higher brain functions altogether.

He palms his dick with one hand, as he feels the heart-skip pressure of an orgasm coalesce along his nerves like the build up before a storm, his dick feeling left out all of a sudden; it felt vaguely wrong to feel this good and not have some form of friction there. In his hand his dick twitches and reacts to every thrust in subtly different ways, until the moment Jaskier does something, changes an angle perhaps, or just Geralt’s body reaches the maximum capacity for mere human pressure, and Geralt comes with a yell, feeling turned inside-out, falling off the orgasm mountain and hitting every outcrop on the way down.

The aftershocks went on for a long time afterwards. He had thought only women could feel like that, that kind of orgasm that went on sarcastically long from a male perspective, but long after Jaskier had shot long and hot against his back, sworn and praised Geralt for having a magic arse, then strolled off to get a cloth and water and come back to bed with an open bottle of wine, Geralt felt the sparks of pleasure travel up and down his spine, his body unable to get over what it had just experienced. Privately he marvelled, and boggled, and eventually gave into surprised, sated sleep.

When he woke up, Jaskier was leaning against a pair of carved bosoms on the headboard and approximately twelve plush cushions, a new book propped up against his long legs, a bottle of wine mostly empty by his side. It was still light outside, and there was a warm breeze ruffling his hair and the curtains around the bed.

“Good morning”, Jaskier says, even though it was obviously still afternoon. “How are you feeling? Wine?”

“Yes”, Geralt grunts, and drains the bottle. He sits up and considers the situation. Jaskier watches him over the book, cautiously, but not drunkenly, his face open and pleasingly blank, waiting for more information before committing to an expression, a half-held breath of anticipation.

“I’m fine”, Geralt says, taking pity on him. “Good. You can stop looking like that. Open some more wine.”

“At your service”, Jaskier says, and does, taking a long swig before handing the bottle over, and Geralt can’t help but watch the way his throat bobs, the way his lips are still swollen and very red, the way his dick has risen already, just a bit. In the late afternoon light he looks golden and beautiful, and the knot in Geralt’s chest that is threatening to tie itself tighter undoes once again.

“Good morning” Jaskier repeats, and leans down to kiss Geralt with care and attention and a mouth wet with wine, and all the words die in the fires that spring up between them.

* * *

Geralt didn’t wear the outfit that first time, but for the second he put the doublet back on to ride Jaskier as the rays of the day faded away into the velvet dusk, and it was much easier this way; the grunting and the bucking of hips the opposite of the earlier languid, slick deconstruction of a fuck, all feeling and conversation and not much action, this time a much more familiar procedure, Geralt really going at it until he felt it like a hard day on the horse, concentrated now into a mind-bending half an hour of pure, mindless cardiovascular pleasure. His muscles sang with lactic acid, chasing that specific pleasure across the map of his nerves until both of them are slick with sweat and breathing deep to hold on, but obviously however well Jaskier has taken to life on the road, he has nothing compared to Geralt, so eventually he is reduced to begging, to holding on for dear life, providing a hard cock and a feeble counter-rhythm, clinging to the hem of the doublet until the scratches make it look appropriately weathered for a life on the road.

Geralt eventually collapses backwards, sliding off Jaskier’s red-raw dick, finally sated and utterly exhausted. They sleep there, top-to-toe, for an hour or so, before Jaskier grins an evil grin and goes about teaching Geralt something about counterpoint, his fingers tapping on Geralt’s thigh to keep the rhythm as they mutually suck each other off, languid and cool in the night, slow and methodical, the orgasm that follows feels like it sucks the salt from his bones, leaving him raw and porous, full of nothing but pleasure and Jaskier and pleasure again.

They lie face to face, candlelight spilling from under the door but the room otherwise dark and cool, and Geralt asks “was it worth it?” quietly and devastatingly, and doesn’t even pretend it's about the money.

“Worth a lifetime of coin,” Jaskier whispers, and means to elaborate, but Geralt’s face relaxes, not into a smile, but into something better, and he shuts up.

Jaskier gets up after a while and sends for dinner and a bath, but by the time that it comes up, accompanied by a veritable feast, Geralt is fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So when I wrote [vestis virum facit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352902) I knew that I would eventually write the sex scene that followed it, but it took me ages. This has been a weird year, after all. I've had a bad day today, and even though I should have written some PhD, I decided instead to stop punishing myself and just write something that makes me feel like I've got my shit together. 
> 
> Come and hang out with me [on tumblr](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com) and if you like this, you might like my other Witcher fics, [look what you made me do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135105), [Jas Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178491) and [how an egg makes another egg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861446)


End file.
